False Prophet
by cloudlessclimbs
Summary: Violet discovers that her first love, and her first boyfriend, has been dead longer than she's been alive; to make things weirder, Violet and her mom find out they have more in common than they realize. AU after Halloween Part 2 and rated M for language.
1. Kinda like Sherlock

Violet feels like spending the entire day in bed, but she forgoes it. Don't get her wrong: she'll gladly take a sick day for all it's worth to skip being invisible or the source of being pushed into her locker. She hates school. She's a good student, pretty much A's without much effort, but she keeps trying to tell her parents she's okay with home schooling. They, however, thinks she needs to be around kids her own age or some bullshit like that. She's tired, barely eating anything, and when she is eating something she's throwing it back up. Her immune system has always been shit, so it's no wonder she's caught some bug. "Are you sure you feel up to going today?" Her mother asks worriedly, stroking her protruding stomach with a baby Violent only sees as their last chance to save her parent's shitty marriage. "I can call the school if you need another day's rest…" Violet shakes her head, negating her mother's attempts at, well, being one.

She hates making her parents worry. She'd rather be neglected than worried about. It makes her feel like shit.

"It's just some dumb bug," Violet explains with a shrug. "It's nothing." With that, she pulls on a simple black dress, purple cardigan to go over, and a pair of dirty high-tops as she shrugs her bag over her shoulder and makes her way to hell, also known as High School.

Truth be told, her shitty health can also be the result of Halloween night. No, not the sex part: losing her virginity wasn't like how it's talked about in the movies, it's dirtier and less choreographed, but it was amazing. She remembers how Tate felt in her and no matter how amazing it was—it was ruined by the Dead Breakfast Club. People that knew Tate too well, while Tate, himself, claimed not to know any of them. Stupid bitches…

It's been weeks, now, and she can't get what they told her out of her head. No matter how hard she tries, their voices keep her up at night, until she finally grows the balls to put her free study period to good use: finding shit out for herself.

She has been avoiding Tate, avoiding anything that reminds her of him, and avoiding looking up the Westfield Massacre for herself for weeks now. She can run all she wants but her curiosity always gets the best of her. She isn't great with patience, never has been, and her insatiable curiosity brings her to the school library to see if what happened actually occurred and it isn't some sick, sick joke. "Shit." She whispers under her breath, scrolling down at all the results. She clicks on the second one, thinking she wouldn't find anything worth it, the page loads and Violet loses her ability to think, function, anything.

Nineteen-ninety-four: fifteen students were killed.

The picture is identical to the teenage boy that was inside her just weeks ago. The same boy that sees her dad, saved her and her mom's life, and took her virginity on Halloween.

Tate Langdon: Track athlete, senior, shot and killed fifteen students.

He was killed in his home by a SWAT team.

_He was killed in his home._

_He was __**killed**__._

"Holy shit," is the only thing to escape Violet's mouth as she stands up on wobbly, long legs, backing away from the computer as if it's bathed in Ebola. "Miss Harmon, are you al—"

The librarian doesn't finish her question; as soon as her wrinkled hand is placed on the bony shoulder, Violet's legs give out and the whole world turns pitch black.

Her mom picks her up from school and Violet is sent straight to her room, no questions asked. Violet thanks god—even if she doesn't believe in one—that it's fucking Friday, so she can just sleep the weekend off and continue like nothing has happened. "You need to rest," her mom soothes, comfortingly, wiping Violet's dirty blonde hair from her face like she used to. "The nurse said your blood sugar was a little low, so I'm going to have Moira fix you up some Mac and Cheese." A pause, then she can feel her mother's chapped lips brush against her forehead. "I'm so, so sorry, Vi. I promise; things will get better, regardless of what happens with me and your father. I'm going to be here for you."

Violet can feel her eyes begin to well up, but she swallows a lump in her throat and gives a little nod. She isn't going to admit that she's terrified. Terrified of what she knows, of what's to become of her life, or what will happen with her parents failing marriage. She snuggles into one of her plush pillows, letting her eyes drift towards slumber.

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><p>R&amp;R, guys! Tell me what you think? Constructive crit., please! Also, this fic is not beta'd and a revision of another story that I wrote similar to this one, but that would give the plot away, now, wouldn't it? :p<p> 


	2. Birds

"I like birds, too."

His voice causes Violet to snap her head from the book she's been mindlessly flicking through. She thought about reading the latest installment of the _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series, but she thinks she's dealt with too much death for the time being. She's curled in a ball on the bed, an elbow rests on top of the pillows as she leans her head against her bent fist, gazing at the boy with the messy pale hair, sunken eyes—it looks like he's about to cry!—and faded sweater and jeans he's known to wear. If it isn't sweaters, or striped shirts, it's usually cardigans. His taste in fashion is more askew than hers.

She doesn't say anything. She's been home from school for the past week, now, the bug she has preventing her from doing anything than resting. She has a doctor's appointment later today; Violet doubts it's nothing she doesn't already know, but if it puts her mother's mind at ease than it's the least she could do. Apparently her dad fucked up again (so much for the baby that's supposed to make everything better). Violet is only half-listening when he speaks about why he likes birds so much; they're free, he says. They can fly away when things go to shit. Violet has to give the smallest of smiles at that. Birds are kind of lucky.

"Are you depressed?" He asks, so childlike it makes her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. Violet nods, lashes batting against each other tiredly. She can't keep anything down much less sleep without waking up in a pool of sweat (or wake up to full blown nausea that makes her spend half the night holding the toilet. Pepto-Bismol doesn't do shit.) "I'm sad." She answers softly, almost matching his childlike quality, and it's then Violet realizes that regardless of what kind of soul she's said to have or how much she hides behind her fearless bravado, she's still only fifteen-fucking-years-old.

_He'll be seventeen forever, _she tells herself.

"Me too," the agreement startles her more than she realizes. This time, when he gives his speech, she listens, because there are tears brimming in his eyes and she's too enthralled to look away. She almost feels so very, very guilty, because the way he speaks to her tells Violet that he's innocent. She isn't certain, he could be a very good actor, but her gut says he's innocent and that's that. It's also so much easier to believe him than not; she didn't just give him her virginity on Halloween, she also gave him her heart, body, and soul. "I love you. There, I said it. If you want me to leave you alone I will. You know why? Because I care about your feelings more than mine."

That's it. She doesn't care what happens, what's true and what's not—not anymore. All she cares about is spooning behind him, inhaling his scent that's a mixture of boy-musk, soap and dust. She must've fell asleep because before she realizes it, she's being shaken softly by her mother. (It seems Tate left before she woke up.) "Come on, sleepy head," she says in that all too soft, calming voice that soothed her when she was sick as a little girl. "It's time to head out for your appointment. Then when we get back, I propose the entire night we watch stupid romantic comedies and make fun of them." _Just like before. _Violet gives her mother a sleepy grin. Truth be told, Violet has missed spending time with her mom, but something tells her Tate needs her more right now—or maybe _she_ needs Tate more right now?—so she declines with a believable excuse. "I would, but I have homework I need to catch up on."

Vivian's disappointment is nothing but subtle, but the subject is dropped during the car ride.

The car ride is hell.

If her nausea could get any worse, it has, since as soon as they enter the Doctor's Office Violet beelines for the nearest restroom to blow her chunks. It didn't help matters that recently she's felt bloated up the wazoo. Gas and nausea aren't welcome in Violet's body, but they choose to remain unwanted guests all the same.

"Harmon?" The Medical Assistant calls after a good thirty-minute wait.

The sooner they get this over the faster she can crawl back in bed. Truth be told, being around Tate marks the first peaceful night's rest since Halloween. She didn't even feel nauseous around him.

Vitals are written down, information is written down, and she pees in a cup even if it's barely enough to fill. If she thinks waiting to be seen by an Assistant is long and boring, sitting on the table top, kicking her legs back and forth while waiting for the doctor is even worse. Vivian squeezes Violet's knee supportively, giving a small smile that makes Violet so fucking grateful her mom is as awesome as she is. _Really._ After everything they've went through? Her mom is pretty much her hero right now. What seems like an hour later, an Indian woman enters the room with polite, civil smiles to the two female Harmons and small talk to seem nice; basically, the traditional bullshit doctors pull to their patients, when Violet just wants one to be real and say _thank you for your paycheck. _

"When was the date of your last menstrual cycle—I mean, period, forgive me—your last period, Miss Harmon?" The doctor asks.

_Bitch._

"I know what that is, you can stop your bullshit," Violet pointedly ignores her mother's scolding glare and continues. "…um, last month maybe? My periods are irregular and moving across country, as well having your home broken into, kind of gives you a shitload of stress. Why?"

"Are you sexually active?"

Double bitch.

Violet regrets wanting her mom to be in here with her in an instant that question leaves her mouth. Shit, shit, shit! "Yeah…"

This time she can't ignore the look her mother gives her. Despite all her bravado, Violet winces, because she knows she's going to have Hell to pay when she gets home, or worse: the talk.

The Doctor gives a slow nod, peering at Violet from under her glasses, before taking a deep breath. "It seems the cause of your nausea, Miss Harmon, is normal for the first trimester of pregnancy."

"_What?" _Vivian looks incredulously at Violet, which makes her wince a second time. "You've_ got_ to be kidding me! It's that boy, isn't it? The boy your dad has been treating, Tate, right? Oh my God—Violet! You're so much _smarter_ than that!"

Violet wants to say something, anything, but she's pretty sure this wave of nausea is from nerves rather than anything else as she slides off the table top, rushing towards the trash can to expel the truth of the situation. If the car ride was awkward before, its piece of cake compared to the stony silence that followed after.

Tate's right: birds have it easy. Violet can't exactly fly away from this shit and she's pretty sure her room will be her gilded cage for a very, _very_ long time.


	3. Billie Dean Howard

Another update so soon? Yes. My mind won't shut up about this story. Thank you, wishyouknew22, for your amazing reviews! Also, I'd love a Beta to make this story top-notch and somewhat quality, so if you're game, just PM me.

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><p>To be honest, it hasn't hit her yet that she's pregnant. She knows she is, knows it because her mother has been screaming at her about it for the past half-hour while her father joins in, but the reality hasn't sunk into her skin just yet. Needless to say, there are no more awkward silences because she can hear her parents heated arguing downstairs. About her, about Hayden, about how they think this house is the problem when she wants to shout at them that they're the problem; the house is just that—a house.<p>

She isn't even going to touch the fact that the father is dead. Dead people don't make babies; the only time that shit happens is in Twilight. (Shameful to say, she's read the saga from start to finish.) She spends her time pacing her room, occasionally lifting up her shirt to see her still flat, but slightly bloated, stomach. Eight weeks. "If you're worried about your weight, I think you look perfect." She turns around, startled, to see Tate sitting on her bed. His eyes are brighter, less teary and morose than before. He seems…calm, happy, while she's still tired and now confused as all hell. "Seriously, Vi; you're delicious." He opens his arms and she's in his embrace soon after, returning his slow, passionate kisses as she straddles his lap. She can feel him twitch beneath the denim of his jeans, causing a soft gasp to escape her mouth. He notices, pulling away to flash a wolfish, shit-eating grin. "I can just eat. You. Up." He punctuates with kisses, trailing down her chin to her neck, nipping the pale skin of her bony shoulder.

It's not like she can get even more pregnant, right?

Still, any mood is killed as her parents verbal altercation grows more heated, causing Violet to give a petulant eye roll and moves to sit on the bed beside Tate, resting her head on his strong shoulder. His arm wraps around her waist and they tumble on the bed together, her waifish body curls against his side, and Violet realizes that she's now the vulnerable one. "Remember Halloween night, before those kids started all that shit?" Violet asks. Tate breaks out into a toothy grin, licking his lips with his pink tongue teasingly. "You were kinda straight to the point in seducing me, you know? I never had a girl just grab my crotch before." He gives her a playful wink and she returns it with a light slap on his chest. "Why?"

She pointedly avoids his eyes when she breathes out with a shaky, timid breath: "We didn't use protection." She can't see his reaction, but can feel his body stiffen. "Which is why I've been blowing chunks all the time; I'm pregnant, and my parents, if you can't hear them, are pretty pissed."

After a moment of silence, Violet gains the courage to stare into his eyes to notice he's crying. Her own vision becomes blurry but he simply hugs her tightly to him, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head. She's beyond relieved he doesn't dare ask who the child is like some would; she bites her tongue from asking if he knows he's dead, because she figures this wouldn't be the time or the place. She falls asleep in his arms and when she wakes up, he's there, fully clothed with his hand on her stomach. It's almost childlike how his fingers brush against her abdomen; like it hasn't hit him yet that she's pregnant, too. There's some strange, foreboding tension she can't put a finger on, but she ignores it when she sees a sheepish smile. He's been caught and he's acknowledging it. "Are we ready for this, Vi?"

Violet gives a shrug because, honestly? She has no fucking clue.

They spend the earlier part of the day in bed, before Tate leaves because he doesn't want to be caught. Violet doesn't blame him. A light rap on her door makes the teenager put down her US History notebook, eyeing the ajar door curiously as it pushes open. She prepares herself for her parents, or even the dog, but instead she's greeted by their neighbor who still looks like she could be in the sixties era with how she dresses. "My, my, I do hope I'm not disturbin' you too much, my dear," her Virginian drips off her well annunciated words like the true debutante she is. "I just heard you caught a little bitty bug and brought a peace offering."

"It isn't a cupcake with candy violets on it, is it?" Violet deadpans. "Also, I'm kind of knocked up, so it isn't really a bug. Right now it's an embryo."

Clearly she's annoying the woman, her boyfriend and baby-daddy's mother, but she still tries to radiate the façade of giving a damn so she waves Violet's rudeness aside to show her "peace offering": a carton of cigarettes that makes Violet itch to light. She knows she can't now, anyway, but the temptation is still there. "However, I assume in your position, it isn't right for me to aid in your vices. You're gonna be a momma now, anyway."

Violet is going to assume that Constance isn't omnipotent and that her mom spilled the beans. _Figures._ Still, she gives the tiniest smiles of gratitude at Constance's gift, even if she can't accept it. "It's Tate's." She says after a moment.

Constance gives a long, tired sigh and nods before sitting down on Violet's bed. (She brushes imaginary crumbs before doing so, as if not wanting Violet's taste to taint her old fashioned clothes.) "I figure that by now you've realized he's dead as Moses?" Violet nods. "Which makes me ask my next question: Are you sure that that baby is my boy's?" Violet nods again. "Then there's someone I need for you to meet. She's an expert in the paranormal. She can give us answers that the modern world cannot comprehend."

Violet can't help but to be curious, so she needs, accepting. Really: if someone can confirm that she isn't losing it, that there is a ghost baby inside her, then she figures there's nothing to lose. Constance cranes her neck and calls for that said person.

A woman with curly hair, a Gucci business suit with stylish heals walks in, holding her hand out to Violet. "Violet, this is Billie Dean: I found her on Craig's List. Regardless of what you may think, she's the real deal. She's a Medium."

"Like Jennifer Love Hewitt?"

Billie gives an almost offended look; "I have a better figure, thank you." She pulls the unshaken hand away, eyeing her room, before her eyes trail to her stomach. "Constance and I are good friends. She says you've got questions and I can have the answers—wait." Her brows crease in confusion, staring at Violet's stomach, causing the teenager to wrap protective arms around her person. "I keep seeing babies. Are you pregnant, Violet?"

Violet eyes Constance. "You didn't tell her?"

The old woman shakes her head.

Billie eases herself on Violet's bed and places a hand on the bare skin of her stomach. Before Violet can swat the offending hand away, Billie takes care of it, face blanching. "You can cut the dramatics, Billie, and tell me what you see?" Regardless of the pregnant girl in the room, Constance lights up a cigarette. "There are no cameras to be found in this house."

It seems as soon as Billie came, she leaves, not bothering to utter a single syllable as she rushes out of Violet's room. "Jesus H. Christ. That woman should be a Soap actress with how dramatic she is." Grumbles Constance in annoyance, inhaling and exhaling away from Violet, even if she's certain second-hand smoke is just as bad as smoking during pregnancy. "I'll go get her. You just sit tight and relax."


	4. Begotten

Last update for the night! Thank you to everyone that's following this story. I really want to make this the anti-cliche baby fic. Also, this chapter is told by Constance's point of view, because I'm a huge fan of that crazy lady.

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><p>Constance doesn't like Violet. It can be anything from how the girl dresses, how she carries herself, or the fact her parents have neglected her for so long that they don't know how to see what Constance sees. Besides not being immune to tragedy, Constance's curse is seeing what no one else does, or fails to acknowledge due to their ignorance. Mrs. Harmon is nice enough, Constance can see some of herself in her if she squints, but she's just as weak as her infantile husband. Don't even get her started on that abomination of a man: he's supposed to be helping her boy, not letting his teenage harlot grow pregnant with her son's seed.<p>

She sits on the stool, leaning against the counter top in her kitchen as she inhales and exhales the pack of cigarettes that were meant for Violet. She's expecting Billie today for answers, answers she wants and wants them now, and Constance Langdon isn't a woman to be denied of what she wants. The Medium should know better.

She blows out a string of smoke as her dark eyes stare at the photo she cherishes above all else: Tate, smiling his beautiful smile, holding Adelaide as he leans against the tree. She feels the lone tear that trails down her wrinkled cheek, but she doesn't bother wiping it away. She accepts it, just like she has accepted anything and everything in her life. It doesn't do to dwell on _what might've beens_ or _could've beens_ because at the end of the day, there isn't a damn thing to be done about it.

Oh, how she wishes she was a better mother to her children in the beginning. Maybe then Beau, Addy, and Tate would still be alive. She has another, one with her face and Hugo's eyes, but she skipped town as soon as she graduated, her obvious gimp and all. Constance confesses on missing her daughter, Beau's twin, but is glad she made something of herself. Glad that she got the hell away from that house before it tainted her like it did Tate.

That's her only regret at the end of the day: that she could've done better, knew she should've done better, but didn't all the same.

Now she's been given a grandbaby. Oh, she's stopped questioning on how the hell it could've happened; she has Billie—whose thirty minutes tardy, mind you.—to ask about that. Yet, at the end of the day, she isn't going to care about the how or why, just that it _is._

She's accepting like that.

"Sorry so late," Billie apologizes as she puts her purse on the table, sliding into the seat adjacent to Constance's with labored breathing. "Just got back from the studio, those Lifetime producers are more moronic than the A&E ones, were." She comments, taking her own cigarette out for a long, drawn out drag to come to her senses. Constance says nothing, merely acknowledges her presence with an arch of a light brow. "About this baby business, I have answers, but I'm afraid you're not going to like them, especially when I tell you that Violet isn't the only one pregnant with your psychopathic son's seed."

Constance's blood runs cold and she almost forgets to exhale her own drag. "Excuse me? My boy is dead and bound to that ungodly place; he isn't exactly able to becoming a sperm donor."

Billie's eyes soften, if only a little, and if makes Constance want to bash her head against the wooden table they both sat at repeatedly. "Two babies; two different mothers; same father: I take it you're aware of another pregnancy inside that house?"

"Mrs. Harmon?" Constance asks, incredulously. "Tate hardly knows her. That baby inside that woman's body is the result of her foolish husband, _not _my boy." Already at the filter of her cigarette, she puts it out in the ash tray, her heart thudding in her ribcage like a damn drum. "There's more, Constance," Billie begins, reaching out to hold the woman's wrinkled hand, only to have Constance yank it away—far away. She doesn't want to hear what else the woman has to say, since it's obviously nothing helpful but assumptions, but that doesn't stop the Medium from speaking and it doesn't stop Constance from listening.

"Spirits aren't potent, or even known to radiate enough energy to even have intercourse, but that house has so much negative energy spirits are free to manipulate it and do as they will. The only spirits outside that house that have that much power are entities. Demonic, to be blunt, are more known to make contact, whereas a spirit usually has to work up all that energy to even poke another person. It takes a lot of time and patience." Another drag, as if taking a cue to be the overly dramatic woman Constance knows her to be, before she continues: "However, I did my research as promised; there have been some records of paranormal pregnancies. The most famous one occurs in the Gospel of Matthew. _'And from her, she shall bring forth a son, and thou shall call him Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.' _The Holy Spirit merely whispered in the virgin's ear and she's begotten with the son of God. Another is merely assumed amongst scholars, where before God flooded the Earth, angels and man consummated and made giants, to which why God told Noah to build his Ark and flooded the Earth of the abomination."

"What does any of this have to do with my grandbaby?" Constance asks, defiantly. Billie isn't shaken. It's one of the things Constance has to admire about her: her strength. "We can quote scripture all you want, but you acted like you saw something untoward and I want to know what it is."

Billie takes another drag. This time, Constance realizes by how her hands shake, it isn't for pure dramatics. It's to get her barrens before she says something that may-or-may-not sit right with Constance. She starts another story about a Pope Box, how inside is given the pinpoint date and act of the conception of the Antichrist, which causes Constance to give a tired eye roll. "I'm not claiming the child inside that emo teenager is the Antichrist, but from everything I've read, one of them will bring about the end of days. Regardless, I can get in touch with some Shamans who're better equipped at this than me. I just see and speak to the dead." As she finishes, she passes over the scribbled number across the table on one of the napkins Constance must've had lying around. "Like it or not, your son's seed is in two wombs, and one is carrying the bringer of the end of days. And I'm afraid that no matter what you may do, nothing will stop it."

"Who told you he's fathering two babies?" Constance asks, voice shaking as she reaches for another cigarette to light.

This time when Billie reaches to hold Constance's hand, the older woman doesn't pull away. "One of the original ghosts: the one your son promised to give a child to. Nora."


	5. Taking the road less traveled by,

"I don't know why we're eating together," Ben hears his Vivian murmur, jabbing into the roast with her fork to only emphasize her annoyance with the man adjacent from her. "I agree with being civil for Violet's sake, but a family meal? I have to agree with our daughter and call bullshit." If this were any other time, if their relationship wasn't crumbling bit by bit for his sins, then he'd be enamored with how much Violet takes after Vivian's strength. Really, that's why he fell in love with her in the first place: he craved her strength, her vitality, and the ability to call his bullshit while standing by him when no one else in his life ever did.

He's brought back to the present when he feels her piercing glare burning him to the very core. "Because we need to be a united force right now, especially under the…unfortunate circumstances—"

"—I'm _pregnant_, dad; it's not like I have cancer." He's almost relieved to hear his daughter's interruption as she clumsily slides into the chair between mother and father, slouching in her seat. God, he wishes he had her, for the lack of a better word, balls at her age. Instead, he spent his time in his room doing drugs and listening to The Cure: A story to tell her when she's older and questions why all of his cassettes are as depressing as the songs on her iPod (like father; like daughter.) "Actually, Vi, your mom and I wanted to have an honest-to-god talk about this. No yelling, no judging-just talking. First of all, have you considered all your options?" He doesn't want to say abortion, he knows Vivian wouldn't be against it, and even if he's Pro-Choice as they come, something inside him breaks at the thought of losing a grandchild. "I was thinking, considering the situation, of suggesting Open Adoption…"

Vivian speaks up without a second's haste: "And _I_ was thinking Closed Adoption."

"I'm sure Violet will look into all her options, Vivian," because despite the fact Vivian isn't happy with him—and Ben, honestly, doesn't blame her one bit—he really wishes she saved the childish bullshit when it comes to Violet. "Even if she considers raising the child by her—"

"She's _fifteen_, Ben!" Vivian snaps, leaning over the table as her hazel eyes alight with the same fire that made it unbearable to get the courage and ask her out those twenty years earlier. "Incase banging barely legal students gave you amnesia, we're having _twins_. How can we afford raising three children as well a teenager?"

"So, I guess I'm not needed, since you two can talk and decide shit for me as if I'm not here," Violet deadpans, annoyed. She's right and both adults slump back in their chairs, as if they're being scolded for talking out of turn. Violet throws her silverware down on her barely eaten plate and gets up to go back and sulk in her room, probably, but she turns around and crosses her arms over her chest. "And yeah, mom, I am fifteen: if I do decide to keep this kid, I know I'll do a hell of a lot better than this charade you two call a family. I mean, you can barely sit through a meal without biting each other's heads off." Valid points, all of them, but it still doesn't stop Ben's heart from breaking. "I don't know what I'm going to do, okay? All I know is that I'm sick and tired of this bullshit so instead of worrying about me, why don't you worry about your failing marriage and who I'm going to live with, because if I had a say, I'd choose option number three because both of you are making me want to puke."

Vivian speaks up, concern etched across her face, but Violet ignores it. It seems she has to get everything off her chest and this is the best time to do it. "No. You take me across country to save this family. You buy a house I actually like. Now, you're getting a divorce, selling the house and pretty much talk about my "situation" like I'm not here. _I am_. So, yeah, I'm depressed and scared shitless, but at least I know how to deal with this shit better than the people that are supposed to be adults."

With that, she leaves, stomping up the stairs and slams the door to her room, causing Vivian to give a little jump in surprise.

When Violet enters her room Tate's there, on her laptop, looking like how she imagines a monkey and a socket wrench would look. Too bad she's pissed because that's a pretty fucking hilarious image in her head. He doesn't even jump when she slams the door. It's like he's used to it, or something. She takes a deep breath before trotting towards him, sitting beside to peer towards the laptop's monitor. "Wikipedia isn't a real Encyclopedia, Tate," she says with an air of amusement, especially at the boy's sheepish shrug. "What're you looking up, anyway?"

"How not to suck as a parent," Tate answers, almost like he's embarrassed. "I mean, my mom is a Cock Sucker, and my dad bailed…I don't want to be like them, you know?"

Entwining her small hands in his, she gives him a squeeze. "Do you…Do you want to keep it?" She asks, tentatively, rubbing her chapped lips together. He moves the laptop beside him, before wrapping his arms around her waist, nuzzling his nose into her cheek. "Yeah, I mean, don't you?" Despite her earlier confession of not having a clue on what she's going to do, Violet can't help but nod. Everything always seems so much easier, truer, with Tate. It's freeing, in a way. "We'll be better than our parents. We won't bullshit, we won't hurt them, and we won't ignore them. Sure, we're young, but so were Mary and Joseph if you believe in that shit."

Violet doesn't, but she gets it.

She knows she should feel naïve, annoyed, and thinking about herself and her future—she can't. Besides, she thinks her parents are doing plenty of that for her. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, lovingly, and it's the second time since the beach where he explores her body. It isn't as fast or clumsy as the first time: this one is…romantic, nice, and when he enters her she gives a gasp as her hands grip her purple bed sheets, licking her chapped lips before his lips crushes against her own.

Afterwards he's spooning behind her; one hand strokes her abdomen while the other lazily caresses up and down her sides, pressing kisses against the back of her neck. "I love you, Violet," he whispers, and when Violet reciprocates those three words, she can feel his smile against her neck. "I hope we have a girl."

Tiredly, Violet retorts: "I hope we have a boy."

"Girl."

"Boy."

"Alien."

"As long as it's a boy alien," Violet teases, earning her a playful nip on her bare shoulder.


	6. Second Coming

Time passes by and Violet enters her second trimester with another set of problems: gone is the nausea, but the gas, bloating, and never ending cramps aren't ceasing anytime soon. Violet also realizes she can't hide the bump anymore with baggy clothing and sweatshirts; she also realizes that now her stomach is so noticeable, only accented by the lame-ass maternity clothes her mother bought her, kids are forgetting she's supposed to be invisible and shove her into lockers. Leah doesn't. Not anymore. They have a silent respect, even friendship, after sharing what they experienced in the basement earlier in the year. "My dad's a lawyer," she comments at lunch, handing her some of her food because Violet always feels so fucking hungry twenty-four/seven, now. "And he had me when he was seventeen, so if those assholes try to shove you again, just let me know." Violet can't help but to smile. She knows Leah's friends—the stuck up bitches with bleached hair and designer clothes—don't care for her that much, but Leah doesn't care.

Despite Addy, and Tate doesn't count, Violet thinks Leah can be the first friend she's ever had.

It makes her feel guilty, despite her efforts not to, when she remembers it's Tate who traumatized Leah so badly it made her personality do a one-eighty overnight. She can't let Leah know this, though; she's still convinced it was the devil, even when Violet told her it wasn't so. She stops, now, because sometimes you have to let people believe what they want. "My parents are practically shoving adoption down my throat," Violet comments in between bites of the awful school pizza (yet, she eats it anyway). "I'm not. I mean, I don't even want to go to college, anyway. I only said I did to make them happy."

Leah nods, even if her friends "politely" excuse themselves, probably to puke what they did eat up.

Later after her appointment, Violet and her mom are eating in the food court, bags of baby essentials as well as pregnancy surrounding the table. "I want a home birth." Violet speaks up, causing Vivian to choke on her food. "What?" She asks after a swallow of her bottled water to clear her throat. "That's dangerous, Violet, and frankly after all we've seen in that house I wouldn't feel comfortable with you delivering there. That house…" Vivian trails off, visibly shaken. Violet knows, but Tate tells her that she can't say anything. She'll end up being considered insane just like her mom is. "Anyway, I _know_ you don't want to talk about this—"

"—I'm not giving the baby up." Violet is adamant on that. She doesn't consider herself maternal in any way, shape, or form but after every sonogram appointment she makes peace with the fact she's too attached to even act like she could go through with it. "Mom, I get it, I do: I'm going to grow up quicker than I already am, but I can do it." A pause, only to eat some of her mother's food, because while her mom might think brains and pancreases are appetizing, Violet's baby likes it's food cooked. "Does dad know about Tate?"

Vivian nods, taking another gulp of her bottled water. "He's still going to treat Tate, but you can imagine how he's less than thrilled about him and you…" She trails off, not needing to expand the point anymore: Violet gets it. Still, it's kind of cool that her dad is still trying to help Tate; it just means he's a better man than she gives him credit for. "Your next appointment you'll be able to find out the gender," her mother prods, changing the subject. "Are you going to find out then, or at the birth?"

Violet gives a tiny shrug while all but annihilating her third Big Mac. "I guess. I want it to be a boy, but Tate wants it to be a girl."

"Your dad called it about you. I didn't care; I just wanted you to be healthy, happy and safe. He knew you were a girl from day one." Her mother reminisces, softly. Violet likes when she does this—it reminds Violet that once upon a time, her parents loved each other. It's nice to be reminded. "And same for the twins: we're having boys." Violet feels bad for not sharing her mother's excitement, especially when they have something to finally bond over, but Vivian isn't through-the-moon whenever Violet talks about the quickening she feels so she can't bring herself to be happy at the prospect of brothers.

Ironically, the only person who seems excited, besides Tate, is Constance. Violet can't figure the older woman out: sometimes she acts like she has rabies, the next she's doting and filled with wisdom to give Violet. This time when she goes over after the outing with her mom, she finds Billie Dean is there, too, sitting at the table with her hands folded out in front of her. She hasn't seen the blonde psychic since she ran out of her room like a bat out of hell. She eyes Constance warily, who nods in encouragement. "You look…big, Violet." Billie says bluntly.

Her fingers itch to give Billie the bird, but Violet stops and sits, one hand stroking her belly absentmindedly, while the other holds the swollen stomach protectively. "What? You're not going to run out of here like you've seen Brittney Spears' snatch again?"

"You wanted answers, Violet, correct?" Violet nods, so Billie begins. "The child you're carrying is a special one, regardless of circumstance. Constance and I have spoken to various Shamans and Healers, and we believe you're carrying a little girl. Which is good, because the other option, the not-so-nice option that Constance didn't want me to tell you about, is completely void: congrats." Billie's smirk makes Violet want to hurl towards her, or let whatever-the-fuck lives in the basement attack her like it did Leah. "And you know that I'm having a girl because some of your magic, pot-smoking buddies told you this?" Violet asks, raising a defiant brow. "Bullshit."

Its Constance's turn to speak: "Darling, after all you've been through, this child to be more certain, a couple of people predicting the outcome of future events aren't so hard to believe. Christ, you got pregnant by my dead son: how you're still a skeptic has gone beyond naïve to absolutely foolish." She puffs out some smoke, before inhaling another. Rinse, repeat, and it makes her miss the familiar nicotine flavor that she's had to give up.

"There's more." Warns Billie, and Constance makes an annoyed groan but sits and listens all the same. "There are forces inside that house—dark and evil forces—that want to prevent her birth. 'For when she becomes of age, the Antichrist will ascend, and the final battle will commence. If she's written off sooner rather than later, evil won't have a problem winning. Do you understand what I'm saying, Violet?"

"Yeah, you're insane, and I'm leaving."

With that, Violet's out the door.

* * *

><p>"You're going to have to tell her about the other one," Billie warns Constance before pulling out her own cigarette. "The secret will be revealed sooner or later. If you don't, the house will."<p>

Constance says nothing.

"Let's talk about your pilot, dear, you know how I want to hear all about it."


	7. The devil was beautiful,

"I died here."

Tate's voice breaks Violet out of her reverie of rubbing coco butter on her stomach. Supposedly, it's supposed to decrease the chances of stretch marks, or so Leah says. Come to find out the kooky psychic's right: she is having a girl. No. They're—her _and_ Tate—having a girl. For days, it seems like; she can't do anything to wipe the smug look off of his face. _We can still have an alien, _she justifies defiantly in her head, but he repeats what he said—I died here—and any thought about the gender is lost. "What?"

"I died here. This," he gestures to her room, "used to be mine."

He's sitting on the floor, indian-style, shuffling card after card. Violet sinks from the bed to sit beside him, to he begins to deal. "I figured you didn't know." Violet confesses, awkwardly. It isn't exactly everyday your baby-daddy has been dead longer than you've been alive. "Do you remember it?" She urges, gently. He shakes his head and gives a tiny shrug. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, yeah, that'll be a solid move," he comments with a bitter laugh. "_Hi, I'm Tate. I'm dead. Wanna hook up?_ Yeah, I don't think so." He stops shuffling to put his hand on her stomach. Violet usually wants to punch people when they do it to her, especially random strangers, but when it's Tate it's…special. She wonders if her parents did this when her mom was pregnant with her. The little girl decides to kick and Tate's smile can light up her normally dimly lit room. "Whoa. That's never going to get old to me." Violet wants to tell him that oh, she knows, because ever since the baby found out she can use her mother's womb to practice her Gymnastics, he's been saying that phrase over, and over, and over again.

"What are we going to do now?" She asks after a moment, carelessly leaving her cards to be seen by the notorious cheater beside her.

"Well, you take a card, and then discard…"

"No." She says, giving a soft laugh. "I mean what are we going to do? What will we tell her when she brings home a boyfriend and she introduces a dad that looks the same age as she is."

Tate gives her a hard, stern look. "She's never dating, or some stereotypical shit I'm supposed to say, and we'll take it day by day. It's you and me, for always."

"You know Billie, that crazy psychic your mom talks to?" He nods, shuffling still. "She said our kids is gonna be, like, the second coming or whatever."

"More like the second coming of Kurt Cobain." He teases, and they forget about death and stupid prophecies and start to play Goldfish. She can forget she's fifteen and a soon-to-be-mother, that her own is in a Psych. ward, or that this house is fucked up beyond belief: right now, she's just a stupid girl with a stupid boy, playing cards.

* * *

><p>It was only after Vivian Harmon was committed by her simple minded husband, and knowledge that Violet was at school, does Constance sneak into the house she used to own and silently descends the basement stairs, whispering: "Tate? Tate? Its mama." Stylish heels meet the cold ground and as soon as she turns around, she walks straight into his black shirt and his sullen expression. "Oh,<em> there<em> you are—"

"What do you want?" He interrupts her pleasantries before they can begin.

Old, weathered hands reach to touch his face—his beautiful, beautiful face that he always takes for granted—before he pulls away, she grips his arms. She's desperate, pleading, and for once in her life her little boy has the upper hand. "I-I heard stories about you. Stories about your bad behavior…" He's unflinching, unmoving, but she still has to ask: "It isn't true, is it? You-You didn't do it. _Tell me _you didn't crawl on the good doctor's wife, Tate!" She's desperate, angry, bitter tears spill from her eyes as his grow wide with fear. He's like a little child knowing he's been caught doing something he ought not to, and her temper breaks when he pleads with her to not tell _Violet._

She slaps him.

Slaps him over and over until he's cowering in the corner, tear stained, saying 'mama' over and over again. That damn Billie is talented, that's for sure. "Why?" She hisses, feeling as she did the day the SWAT team shot him in his room. Constance wonders what did she do, truly, to be given such a beautiful gift as Tate, yet have it perverted with something uglier on the inside. The devil was once beautiful.

He says nothing. He merely cries. Just like it was when he was younger and she, out of a drunken rage, went to hard when he acted up. She hates herself for it. She's as capricious, self-serving, and narcissistic as she comes: that did not mean she doesn't love each of her children any differently, even when the only living one can't be bothered to answer her phone whenever she calls. She bends down, wrapping him up in her arms and he isn't fighting her. He's allowing her comfort. She remembers holding him when the SWAT team were through with him, too, crying into his bullet covered chest brokenly. She's so glad Addy was at the Zoo; Constance would've never been able to tell her about her beloved brother being dead, just like she can't bear the thought of Tate knowing about Addy's death. "My broken little boy," she coos, soothingly, rocking Tate back and forth as he wailed against her chest. "What am I going to do with you?"

* * *

><p>"Have you thought of any names, yet?" Ben asks his daughter driving home from another doctor's appointment. He has yet to tell her the school called and suggested she finish the semester online. Somehow, he doubts Violet would have a huge problem with it, even if it took his entire being to censor himself and not threaten the conservative piece-of-shit Principal. "I like Benjamima, myself." He offers, playing the card, once more, of the dorky-slash-goofy dad that tries too hard. It works; Violet laughs, she honest-to-god laughs, and as soon as he knows it Ben is joining with her. He's been bonding with her more and more ever since Vivian was put under Psychiatric Evaluation.<p>

Ever since he found out that one of those babies aren't his.

They stop by a park and after a short walk—she _waddles_ and he remembers teasing her mother about it sixteen years earlier, saying she looks like a penguin—they end up sitting on a bench. She leans against him, just like she used to as a little girl, too proud to admit she was afraid of the pretend boogie man under her bed.

"When can I see mom?" She asks. He shrugs, because he honestly doesn't know.

He honestly doesn't think he wants his daughter near the woman that has been lying to him for god-knows-how-long.

"Adelaide." She says, giving him that tiny smile. The same smile she gave him when she was seconds old but the nurses claimed it was just gas (he knew better). "I know she gave you and mom aneurisms when she was alive, but she was my friend. She was nice."

"Adelaide Harmon," he tests it out on his tongue, taking in the feel, before shrugging his shoulders passively. "God, I can't believe you made me a grandfather. I'm way too awesome to be a grandfather."

"You're old."

"You're grounded."

She leaves to use the public restroom and he's stuck in his thoughts. He doesn't remember crying at the fact that he's bitter that the families around him have so much to live for, or the fact his daughter returned not too long after she waddled off, until she speaks: "You okay, dad?"

She worries about him when it should be the other way around.

"I will be." He lies, but it's better than the truth. "I will be."


	8. Rubber Man

There it is. He thinks, bemusedly, picking up the toy to cradle it to his chest. Maybe Addy, the name Violet wants to name their daughter, would play with this when she's older? He likes the idea of handing down an heirloom, even if it'll tear him bit by bit to part with something so precious. For so long, the simple toy truck was his only friend. He had Adelaide, Beau (in doses), and Bianca never was that close to him but he still had her, regardless. (Despite the fact that as soon as she graduated she left them alone with the cock sucker; no calls, no letters, not anything—it's like she wanted to forget about the shit, even if her siblings were a part of it. Bitch.) No matter how attentive his older siblings were, he was still alone.

He hears sobbing of a familiar woman in the background. A woman that has been more of a mother than his own for as long as he can remember; "Life is too short for so much sorrow." He quotes what she told him as a little boy, comforting him after Thaddeus tried to attack him. She promised to protect him, to love him like her own, and from then on he was indebted to her. "No." She chokes out, grasping her chest desperately, "it's an eternity. _My baby_…"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Tate remembers why he's here in the first place: he has to admit what he's done is wrong and has to, no matter how much it's going to kill him, tell his surrogate mother he can't give her the simple thing to make her face smile. He always liked it when Nora smiles. "I-I can't give you Violet's brothers. I know I said I would, but I _can't_ do that to her. _I love her_."

Her face fades from tear stained sorrow to something else. Something he's never seen before. "There's another one. Don't lie to me, I'll know when you're lying: there's another in the stomach of that all too skinny teenage rat—"

"_Don't call her that."_ He warns voice stern as he holds his boyhood toy tightly to his chest. "I can't give you my daughter," he realizes that Vivian's babies are his, too, but he considers the life growing inside Violet's womb his child, rather than his consequence on something he now regrets with a vengeance. "I _won't_ give you my daughter."

Nora disappears, leaving Tate with bile in his throat.

"Tate?"

He hears Violet on top of the stairs. Violet tells him she's about to end her second trimester in a few weeks, but he's still transfixed that she's pregnant with his baby. All worry, all anger, and all regrets he's had moments ago fade when he sees her standing on the top step, tilting her head in confusion. "You okay?"

It doesn't take long at all for Tate to rush up those stairs and bend down, placing a loving kiss to the swollen belly he's come to enjoy lavishing so much attention to. "I am now." He answers honestly, standing up and begins to gently guide her from the basement and back into her room. On the way there they pass Thaddeus' old room.

It seems the nursery is being Queer Eyed for the Straight Guy.

Gross.

"_Well,_ if it isn't Elvira and Norman Bates Jr." Chad sneers once he realizes he and his sham of a husband are being watched. He eyes Violet from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, judging her with a manicured brow, before giving a scoff. "Oh, sweetie, you even have no taste when it comes to maternity. See? This is why you're so not ready to be a parent—"

"_Shut your mouth you goddamn queen_!" Snaps Tate, protectively. "Why the fuck are you decorating the nursery for two, anyway? Vivian's going back to Florida as soon as the twins are born."

"Oh, aren't _you_ adorable." He then eyes Violet's stomach, which causes her to protectively hold it, as if Chad's some vulture devouring it's new meal. "Might add a third crib if there's enough room; while I'm thrilled to have two bouncing baby boys, as I know Patrick is, too," he turns to his husband and they share a grin together. It's sweet, if you were into that shit. "But I always dreamed of having a little girl to dress up…"

It's Violet's turn to look aghast: "You're sick! You're not having this baby, or my mom's babies!"

"What are you going to do—murder me?" He asks looking at Violet. However, his eyes trail over towards Tate, intending the jab to be for the teenaged boy. "Too late."

Violet doesn't ask questions, she's too disgusted to form words, and merely stalks off with Tate right behind her. Once they're in her room—_their _room—she angrily bites at her nails, pacing the room. Tate comes behind her to wrap his arms around her, soothingly. He hushes her with kisses that are soft, sweet, and strokes her belly lovingly as he whispers anything and everything to calm her down. She's tired, it seems the little girl is always making her tired, hungry, horny, or having to pee, so he leads her to the bed and spoons her from behind. "Do you think my mom will make me come with her to Florida?"

Tate doesn't want to think about that. He can tell, or at least he hopes, that she doesn't either by how she asks; she wants to be reassured. He can't deny her anything.

"No." He says his tone final. "We can't be apart, Violet: I won't let us. Do you want Addy to grow up without a dad?" She shakes her head no, a lone tear seeping down the apples of her cheeks. "We're a family now. _Together forever_."

"My dad still wants to sell the house, Tate," she says, her voice breaking and it causes his heart to break. "It's like t-they want me to be away from the only thing that makes me happy. It's like they're punishing me for their fuck-ups."

Tate only holds onto Violet all the more tighter; "I won't let anyone take you two away. I promise."

It's only when he's certain she's asleep he sneaks out of her room and begins to form a plan in his head.

He isn't happy to be putting the black, rubber suit on once again. He doesn't like doing this, but he has to. He's known light, known love, and is going to have an honest-to-god family for the first time in his life; Tate isn't going to allow that to be stripped away, even by a man he respects. Sure, he treats his marriage like shit, but he's a good dad. He's even been pretty cool about him getting his kid pregnant, since now he's a dad himself, Tate wouldn't be too pissed if Ben wanted to bash his head against the wall. He's pretty sure he'd do that, too.

The sound of the zipper and his image in the mirror makes it easier to detach himself for what he has to do. If he doesn't, he could lose everything, and that would eat him up to where there isn't anything good about him left.

He attacks Ben while the man still is in his towel. He gives a good fight, but Tate isn't into it as he usually is, but the younger man still overpowers him and once he's in a choke hold, placing the chloroform to his mouth forcibly, he rips off his mask. He doesn't know why, but something compels him to do it, because he wants Ben to know how dead serious he is. "I like you, and you're her father, so I'm not going to kill you." He promises with labored breathing. "I didn't want to hurt you, _but she can't leave._ I need her here. I need _both_ of them here."

When Ben's feet give out beneath him, Tate vanishes to the basement to peel the godforsaken suit off his body for the last time.

* * *

><p>In a state of panic Ben causes Violet to go into early labor when he all but forces her out of that god-forsaken house. Tate's scare tactic only makes him more hell bent on getting Violet as far away as he can, especially since he knows his wife, his poor wife, has been telling the truth the entire time. He forgets; he's the liar, not Vivian. "Dad!" She calls out to him, clutching her stomach, but he ignores her, continues to drag her body until her legs give out. <em>"Dad!" <em>He turns around and she's screaming. Screaming, crying, and panicking the paramedics can't be there fast enough. Ten minutes she's hooked up to some IV and, thankfully, any sign of early labor is prevented. Thank God.

Her Obstetrician releases her with ordered bed rest for the duration of the pregnancy. Ben suddenly hates that thing growing inside her, his grandchild, because she's putting her mother and herself in danger by staying another moment in that house. So when she pulls up to Constance's drive way, he isn't even fazed by Violet's protests. "What? I want to be at home in my own bed!"

"I don't want you in that house or around that monster." He hisses, fingers clutching the wheel. "I asked Constance to take care of you for the time being and she agreed." His tone is final and she has no choice but to begrudgingly do as he says. He doesn't get out of the car to greet Constance, he merely nods his head in acknowledgement as the older woman ushers the inconsolable girl inside and doesn't drive away until she shuts the door.

He defies traffic and much longer than he likes, he finds his way to Vivian's room, eyes red and brimming with tears as he looks at her. She looks so tired, so weathered, and still she strokes her stomach so softly as if it'll break. "I'm so, so, _so _sorry, Viv." He crumbles to his knees before her, taking her hand in his. "I sh-I should've never doubted you. I know now."

Vivian gives him a sad, soft little smile. She looks so much like Violet it breaks his heart. "There's more," he warns, finding his way to sit on the chair beside her cot. "They didn't want me to tell you in this state, but one of those babies isn't mine. Apparently it's possible, just a one and a million chance that it can actually happen." Vivian's eyes are wide as she takes it in, but she's strong. She always has been. "Babe, I'm so sorry…"

She holds him.

Benjamin Harmon is yet again filled with the fact that he doesn't deserve a woman like Vivian in his life.

* * *

><p>Her parents are gone for the next few days and Constance agrees to help her back into her own house, so she can relax in her own bed as intended. (Even if she'll have to quickly go back to Constance's couch once Ben calls to tell them they're on their way home.) Tate stays by her side while Constance fusses by fluffing the pillows. She's still a bit peeved that Billie's spell to exorcise ghosts was all for naught. Violet thinks it's just because Constance doesn't want to be reminded a gay couple lived here. "Now, I want you to rest, alright?" She asks Violet pointedly. "This child still needs to grow up big and strong and if she comes too soon, she might not be as strong as we'd like."<p>

"She'll still be perfect," grumbles Tate.

Constance rolls her eyes and leaves, mumbling about how even as a ghost her youngest is going to give her gray hair.

Violet doesn't know when she fell asleep, or how long, but when she wakes up its Chad looming over her. She starts, fear evident in her eyes, but he merely shakes his head and scoffs. "I can't believe you slept through that." He admonished, eyeing her bed sheets and general décor with disgust. "Oh, child, I do hope your little one has _taste_."

"What do you want?" She asks, sleep still evident in her voice, but so is being royally pissed.

"You didn't _know?_ Mommy dearest decided to go into labor early." He comments as if it's no big deal. "Looks like we're getting another permanent resident, but you can blame your psychopathic baby-daddy for that: let's just say his demonic spawn is what finally done mommy in."

_"Shut up."_

"Oh,_ I'm sorry_: I thought you _knew_ that!" He asks with faux-shock as he places his hand to his chest. "It should really be a Greek Tragedy, don't you think? Baby boy Harmon-Langdon has a half-sister _and_ niece all in one. I'm not surprised: Norman Bates Jr. was the one that killed me and my unfaithful love of my life, or was, Pat. He's one_ literal_ mother fucker."

She feels nauseous. She leans over, huddling into a little ball, as the bitter ghost scoffs cruelly. _"Go away."_ She whispers.

He does, leaving her alone with her sobbing and scattered thoughts.

_He's lying. He has to be._


	9. Birth

"He's not lying, sweetie."

Her mom is sitting beside her, stroking her hair lovingly. She looks beautiful, so beautiful, and it kills her to look at her own mother because she's dead. She feels it in her bones. The little girl inside her feels it, too, because her stomach's in knots. "I'm so, _so_ sorry baby." Vivian coos, helping Violet sit up so she can hold her to her chest, rocking her like she was still her little girl. No matter how she acts or what she's said, Violet knows she'll still be that little girl, because no more than ever she needs her mother and there she is. "But now isn't the time to give into self-pity, Violet: now is the time to find that strength I know you have. Now is the time to be a mother and get up, be strong, and get out of this house."

"Mommy…" Violet chokes, snot running down her lip but she doesn't care. She's just clinging onto her mother because she doesn't want to let go yet.

"No." Vivian pulls Violet away, gently, but sternly. "You don't have much time, sweetie. The longer you stay in this house the more my precious grandbaby is at risk to being engulfed by it. I lost my babies to this place: I don't want you to ever, _ever_ know how that feels." Vivian places cold, gentle lips on Violet's sweaty forehead, causing the teenager to renew a fresh set of sobs. "I'm sorry for not being there for you, not giving you the credit you deserve, but now it's time to learn from my mistakes. Go. Make sure that little girl is every bit of a bad ass her mother is."

Violet gives a soft laugh. She feels another presence, the maid, Moira's, as she helps the pregnant teenager from the bed gently. "Come, Miss Violet; while I would normally say I'd regret to see you go, I can't share that sentiment. I've seen far too many good souls fall victim to this house. I won't let another suffer the same fate."

"Moira said if we helped," one of the ginger twins began, "she'd let us touch her younger self's boobs."

"How far along are you, anyway?" Asks the other, "I mean, you look like a whale."

"_What the fuck is going on?" _

It's Tate. Everyone and everything freezes and Violet is torn between slapping his face and kissing it. God, this is all fucked up. There's a sharp twinge of pain in her stomach, then another and another, and he's picking her up like a child to lay her on her bed. She wants him to go away—f_ar away!—_and she wants all of this to be some fucked up dream, but the cramping, blinding white hot pain only maximizes to where she can hold back a scream.

She feels a rush of water leave between her legs, making her feel oddly lighter, but her face pales as she looks at her mother. "How far along are you, Violet?"

"_Dude, she's leaking!"_ Observes one of the twins, while his brother makes a disgusted face.

"T-Twenty-eight weeks, I think." She doesn't know. She can't keep up with the time anymore. All she knows is that it's still early and this can't be happening—God, why can't Tate stop_ looking_ at her like he actually gives a damn? She isn't sure if its hormones or just the fact he raped her mother, a psycho killer, and actually fooled her into believing he gave a damn, but she wants to stab him repeatedly_. "Holy shit!"_

"What do we do?" Tate asks, having the gall to look to her mother with doe eyes for advice. Her mother, showing the same strength during that Home Invasion shit, stares at him and her words are full of venom: "I think _you've_ done enough, Tate." She spats, deadly, but turns to Violet and her cold demeanor fades into nothing but warmth. "You're going to make it through this, baby. Breathe. Moira is going to get Doctor Montgomery; he'll help you. This house won't get you or your baby."

"She's so _young_…" says Moira when she brings Charles up to Violet's room. He's still covered with her mother's blood, and the traumatized nurses are right behind him. "She'll survive, won't she? What will happen to the little girl if she doesn't?"

"We'll take care of her," chirps Tate, looking at Violet as lovingly as he strokes her hair it makes her sick. She can't fight, she can't show Tate that she knows what a filthy goddamn liar he is and that he sure as hell not going to be anywhere near Adelaide, because her back arches as another contraction ripples through her body. There's a sheet draped over her body for modesty's sake, while her underwear, is pulled off by the doctor's hands to make the delivery easier. God, she wanted a home birth, too: now all she wants is to be far, far away and in a hospital where she knows she's safe. She isn't safe here. "She's already ten centimeters dilated. Violet?" He asks. "I need you to sit up and when I say push, push. I also need you to breathe and focus on the sound of my voice: understood?"

Violet nods weakly, being helped by both Tate and her mother, the obvious tension between the two is suffocating.

Charles counts down from ten—_push!_—another—_push!—_another—_push!_

She's so tired and it hurts so badly. "I can see the head—oh, Violet, you're doing so well!" Coos her mother, encouragingly. She wants to ask where her dad is, but every time she opens her mouth it's to scream.

"_Push!"_

Everything is in slow motion, she can't hear anything besides her own heart, and suddenly the life she's been carrying for who knows how long is severed by a snip of the cord, washed, and swaddled with some bath towel by Moira as she hands the infant to Violet, her good eye blurry with tears. Suddenly everything and everyone disappears and it's just Violet and Adelaide: two odd balls against this fucked up world. She's breathing, she bright-eyed, but she isn't crying. It's like she's too thankful she's made it out alive to make a huge fuss about it. Violet's sweaty, in need of a shower, a hibernation period that's ungodly, and food can't hurt either—

That doesn't matter. Everything else is insignificant. When a tiny fist captures her index finger, Violet rethinks the possibility of God, or something like one, because this is the closest she's felt to a spiritual experience, regardless of being surrounded by ghosts. "Hey," she greets her daughter, unable to help the smile that's making her face ache. "Hey."

The room becomes alive again, her mother is sobbing tears of pride as she places kisses on the babies matted head, while Tate stares in wonder, frozen in awe to where he can't move. Charles stitches Violet up while the dead nurses begin to help Moira clean up the blood and placenta that landed on the floor. Violet can hear the ginger twins saying something that what they've seen cannot be unseen and how they regret looking when the thing—Violet chooses to ignore them calling her daughter a _thing_—started to come out.

Violet's too busy falling in love to really notice much else.


	10. What's right isn't always easy:

When she's well enough to care for herself, Violet makes her way down the wooden steps that creaks whenever her ballet flat hits the step. One shoulder holds the wait of pink-and-white diaper bag, while her hands carry the car seat with absolute care. Violet knows what she has to do: she has to make Tate believe nothing has changed so he wouldn't do anything to keep her, or Adelaide, trapped in this house. If Addy wasn't in the picture she'd confront him, bravely, tell him how she knows everything and tell him how she feels before banishing him for good. This isn't possible when you have a newborn child in the equation.

There's also that silver thread of hope that maybe, just _maybe_, her mother is mistaken and the man in the rubber suit isn't Tate at all. Maybe it's like one of those bad soap operas where Tate has an evil twin? Any option is better than what she's faced with, now, but who's she kidding anyway: she probably would've risked her daughter's life by raising her in a house that doesn't want her.

The newborn's fussing breaks her out of her thoughts and Violet makes her way to the sofa, placing the car seat on the coffee table and shrugs off the large diaper bag to give her shoulder some relief. Addy's been fed, changed, burped, and Vivian taught Violet how to bathe her, as well. Attention is what she wants and already unable to deny Addy anything; Violet scoops the infant into her arms, chest against chest, rocking back and forth. "Getting out of the house so soon?" Inquires Tate, causing Violet to give a tiny start, before she remembers herself and gives the tiniest shrugs. "I wanted to take her to the doctor, or something, you know? Make sure she's okay." The lie is believable. It comes out of her mouth so smoothly it's like she thought of it on the spot.

He believes her and _regardless_ if this is the right thing to do, it's breaking her heart.

"Wanna hold her?" Violet offers, softly. He nods, almost like a little boy being given a much coveted gift. Addy's sigh is almost blissful, her tiny hands grabs ahold of the dead teenager's cardigan in fascination. "Here, let me take a picture."

"Can ghosts photograph?"

Violet shrugs. "I mean, we're going to have a photo album, might as well start with one of her and her dad, right?"

She's fighting the tears when he practically lights up at that thought. _I love you_, she thinks. _I'm sorry you made me do this. _

A few snaps here-and-there of father and daughter and one, as suggested by Tate, of the three of them together, and a trivial diaper change later and Adelaide's asleep. It's noon. The plane to Florida leaves in two hours. She has to go. "I'll call you to tell you about the results, okay?" She tells him as he walks her out. He looks so peaceful, so happy, and she once again wishes that he never raped her mother and lied to her in the first place. There's a cab waiting for her, but the lies keep coming: "I had to call one," Violet explains, "I think someone jacked my dad's car, or he just up and left…" He kisses her passionately.

"I love you," he tells her, before bending down to place a kiss on Adelaide's forehead, murmuring the same sentiments.

She wishes he means it, but after what she's learned she isn't one hundred percent certain he can.

"I love you, too," she replies before heading into the Taxi, making sure Adelaide's buckled inside safely, and drives off. He watches her leave. She knows because she looks back one, just once, and quickly snaps her head forward when she feels hot tears on her cheeks.

"LAX Airport, please."

The cab driver quirks a brow at Violet; "Isn't she young to fly?"

"She's tough." Violet says, smiling towards the sleeping bundle. "She doesn't buy the bullshit other babies can't handle."

Her father sees her and Adelaide off. Michael—what Constance named Tate's son, not her father—is with Constance. He promises he'll fly out after he gets things settled with the house and her mother. Violet wants to call bullshit, but sometimes bullshit is needed in the most desperate of circumstances. She hugs him, tightly, before boarding on the flight that'll take her to her Aunt Jill's and far, far away from the Murder House as possible.

She isn't that shocked, three days later, when she hears that her dad committed suicide.

* * *

><p><em>I want to thank everyone for your amazing reviews! So sorry for how short this chapter is; only a few more installments before the end.<em>

_Seriously - thank you all so much! :)_


	11. Better than nothing

Tate watches while Ben sweeps up the debris from last night's scare tactic at ridding the house of new potential owners: a Hispanic couple caught with baby fever with a teenaged boy set to graduate in the Spring. Tate didn't help out one bit because he simply does not care; he hasn't cared since he last saw Violet, last kissed Violet, and last held Adelaide in his arms. He doesn't know why she left, why he couldn't see it when it was there in plain sight, or why he spent days waiting for her to return back with an explanation for everything so he can wrap her in his arms and excitedly show her the crib he made. It was black with a pink comforter for Addy to sleep on. How he wanted to give the nineties-grunge theme for the nursery instead of the sickly sweet one Patrick and Chad made. Now? _Now _what was supposed to be Adelaide's nursery is now Jeffrey's: the baby that was born stillborn, that Nora decided she didn't want, as a replacement for Vivian and Ben Harmon from missing their daughter.

"Why did she leave?" Tate asks, his voice breaking as the words fly out of his dry mouth. "She told me she was going to come back."

Ben doesn't face him. Ben continues to sweep, his back muscles stiffen to let Tate know that he does, in fact, hear him. "What makes you think Violet would want Adelaide to grow up with a man that raped her grandmother?" He asks, acid dropping from his voice. He turns around, then, glaring daggers at Tate. "Yeah, Tate, she knows. She knows what everyone else now knows: you're a psychopath. The worst kind, too; you're charismatic, compelling, and a compulsive liar—"

"That's your diagnosis, then?" It shouldn't shock him too much; he's read about psychopaths and sociopaths online, before. He used to think he fit them, but then Violet comes along and something he's only shared with his siblings awakens for her. _Love._ "I'm a psychopath?" Maybe if he says the word, psychopath, he'll get better? He has to. He has to prove to Ben, then maybe Violet in turn, that he's better. Ben just stares at him and for once Tate doesn't care that someone else has the upper-hand. He's too tired to want control—he has been for a while. Hurting others hasn't given him a real satisfaction since Violet. If he's honest with himself, it hasn't since he died. That's what he thinks, anyway, even if his human life is blurry at best. "Will Addy or the other one be like me?"

"I can only pray that what your mother failed with you, she doesn't with _my_ son." It isn't his son, Tate realizes, but he only respects Ben even more for taking that title when he doesn't have to. He's heard Vivian worry about the boy's development off and on, only to have Moira or Ben comfort her that as long as he's far, _far_ away from this house he should be fine. "As for Addy, not that's any of your concern because a sperm donor doesn't entitle you too much, Jill says she might have Autism—" Tate's eyes widen with worry, he can feel his heart beat wildly in his chest. "Is she okay? Was it the house? Is she healthy?" He asks in one breath, but as soon as he steps towards Ben to implore further, he feels the cold metal of a rifle under his chin. "Ben."

_Ching-chic _goes the rifle and Ben's face is hard, his knuckles are white, and Tate can see a few stray tears fall from his face. Angry tears. "You know, Tate, I thought you were just a troubled boy: I thought you were like me. I thought I saw you change, especially when Violet was pregnant, and even if there was a part of me that wanted to hurt you for what you did to her, I couldn't, because I saw myself in you. I thought that the little girl could give you the strength Violet gave me." Once again, Tate realizes that Ben Harmon is a far better man that he ever gave credit for. Tate knows he wouldn't be so forgiving if it was Adelaide. "Look at your tears. It's like you give a shit, but you don't. You can't even say what you've done out loud. It's always someone else, never you."

"When I was alive I was killed by a SWAT team for murdering fifteen of my classmates," Tate answers, pushing the rifle's tip away from his chin, hearing it fall to the wooden floor with a loud thud. Thankfully, no shot is heard, because he knows Jeffrey is sleeping, even if he doesn't need it, and he doesn't want to wake him. Plus, it would scare Beau, Margaret and Angie and that hardly seems fair. "I looked it up on that goggle thing. I lit Larry on fire when he was seeing my mom. I killed Chad and Patrick because they wouldn't give Nora a baby. I killed the people that broke into your house while you were gone to protect your wife and daughter." He sucks in shaky breath, feeling snot run down his nose as his eyes continue to let tears fall. "I raped your wife so Nora could have a baby. I helped Hayden terrorize her so she'd be sent off, so Violet could stay here. I probably did a shitload of other stuff, but there you have it."

Ben doesn't do what Tate wants.

Ben just _claps._

"Bravo, Mr. Langdon," he says with an almost cruel smile be-painting his countenance. "Well played. _Really_. You think that'll make me forgive you? I can't. You don't deserve it, Tate." Tate hears how he doesn't believe in Psychiatry. How he throws back his relationship with his mother at his face and it makes Tate feel like vomiting._ "You son of a bitch."_

"No, that's you." He quipped back, albeit immaturely, but he continues to sweep up the mess they've made and for what seems like hours, Tate speaks up: "Can we, I don't know, maybe hang out together sometime? I know you hate me. You have every reason to hate me, but I think you can help me."

Ben says nothing; Tate is going to take that as a good sign for now.


	12. Bad boy

No one living suspects Constance is raising the only surviving Harmon twin. No one. Constance knows how to blend in, cross her t's and dot her i's, and slither beneath the radar to arise any suspicion. For all the police know, Michael Harmon met the same fate as his brother. That's how Constance wants it to be kept for as long as she has a say in it. It's been three years and the immaculate little boy has himself wrapped around Constance's finger; she'll do anything for that little boy, has done everything for him—even if it's cleaning up his messes. He never remembers what happens afterwards; he only looks at her with confusion at the blood on his hands, even if only prior he'd look elated like he's so proud of what he's done. She'll have to teach him to hone his talents when he's older her, when he's old enough to go to school, because she doesn't want him to be in too much trouble too soon.

Regardless of the missing Hispanic babysitter, Michael's hick-ups are becoming less and less (not that he remembers it. He still asks where Rosa is, now-and-then, and is perfectly content when she merely shrugs her shoulders). He's eating cheerios while drawing Constance another picture to decorate the refrigerator with. "Michael, that's lovely! Is that me and you?" He nods, quietly; beaming at the fact she recognizes herself and points to the squiggly line that's supposed to be her_. 'Nana.'_ He responds. He's very articulate, just like Tate, but oh-so-quiet. "I see! Well, I think I've never looked better!"

His blue eyes light up and it's easy, oh-so-easy, to forget about Rosa's body on the floor of his room just a week ago. Good thing she bought two dogs: they're still dining on her remains.

Constance hasn't smoked in three years, either. It's a personal best.

Picking up an envelope that's addressed to her, she opens it up, realizing that the messy handwriting is one Violet Harmon's. "Your sister sent in _more_ photos of your niece, it seems. I'm surprised she doesn't wear a helmet. I hear that's what they make retards do nowadays." Adelaide Harmon is Autistic and, therefore, inferior in Constance's mind. She doesn't deserve to share the name with _her_ Addy: no one could ever match her strength, her endurance, or her intelligence regardless with how they were hatched. She tosses the photographs to the side. She figures Tate would want them. Every month she receives a status report and every month she gives it to Tate. Ben and Vivian already video chat with their daughter on those internet things: her baby boy deserves better, anyway. Like Michael.

Tate doesn't want anything to do with Michael.

_Idiot._

Billie Dean visits. It's a monthly ritual, but Constance has to give the letter and pictures to Tate as always. She'll respond within a week or so. She has to make time to pretend to give a damn. "I hope it's no trouble you watching him for ten minutes," Constance begs, putting on her sunglasses as she's nearly out the door. "He's asleep in his bed, dead to the world. As soon as I come back you can tell me about the network's decision to renew your series."

Constance sneaks into the basement, her son's frequent hide out, and gives him more and more pictures of the little disabled child he's so proud to father, while there is a perfect, healthy one next-door he seems not to want anything to do with. "He's Ben's, not mine," Tate tells her if she ever pries it out of him why he's so distant. Ben Harmon always asks about Michael, as does Vivian, and it's in the two people she doesn't want to share anything with about the immaculate boy is she able to be the proud, doting grandmother. She hates having to pretend to give a damn when they talk about Adelaide finally, after all this time, speaking her first word. "Song," Vivian says proudly, grinning ear-to-ear. "I told Ben that she's going to be a musician just like me…or _was_."

"How nice," Constance comments, sipping her tea as she continues to feign interest, "I'm sure you must be _proud _at how well little Violet is adapting to motherhood."

They are. She can tell.

Constance finally excuses herself so she can go back to her golden child, her special boy, but as soon as she steps inside the walls are covered in blood and the room smells like death.

"Good lord, _not again_."

* * *

><p>Violet Harmon is no longer a drifting, sullen fifteen year old girl; she's now nineteen, second year of college, and is studying to be a teacher for special needs children. She wants to write, so her minor is Literature, but Adelaide inspires her to help other children like her out every day. She's thankful for scholarships and she's thankful for her Aunt Jill for being so amazing and loaded; she doesn't think she could've done it alone. Dark eyes, burly blonde hair, and (sadly!) her mother's nose, Adelaide Harmon is nothing like her father. She's kind, loving, and regardless what anyone says she's <em>smart.<em> She knows what's going on: just because she can't articulate it, yet, doesn't mean she's an _idiot. _

There are times, too, when Violet thinks she isn't Autistic at all.

For one, Adelaide always loves on her or her Aunt Jill. She gives smiles, laughter, kisses and hugs. Sometimes she thinks why Adelaide is so quiet is because she hears—no, she _knows_—something that Violet cannot. She remembers how excited she was when she got to tell her grandparents her first word, and how she clapped for herself when Ben and Vivian did, encouraging her whole heartedly. Violet never thought she wanted kids, or even liked them, but Adelaide has filled something inside of Violet she never knew needed filling.

Sometimes she wishes Tate was here, with her, being able to be excited over the milestones Adelaide partakes in, but she can't regret leaving him like she did. She's forgiven him, something she never thought she could do, but she can't forget and she can't regret choosing Adelaide over Tate. The house got to Adelaide after all with her learning difficulties: she can only imagine what it would've done if she had stayed.

Times like this she finds herself in her daughter's room, staring at the framed picture of Adelaide and Tate on the end table. Regardless of what he's done, Violet likes to believe he still loves Adelaide; she may always love him, it's hard pressed not to when they have a child together, but as long as he doesn't blame Adelaide for anything than she's fine. She curls up on the toddler bed, staring at the photograph, allowing herself to drift off in some daydream where everything was different and he wasn't dead, that there was no Murder House, and that he's in the living room right now with Adelaide as she plays with the toy construction truck he gave her.

Wailing snaps Violet out of her reverie as she rushes in the living room, finding Adelaide lying on the floor in a fetal position, screaming as tears stream down her chubby cheeks; _"Mama!" _She cries, brokenly. It's the only other word she knows besides 'song.' _"Mama!" _

Violet picks her up and cuddles with her on the sofa. She's never been particularly affectionate, not ever, not really with Tate and when she did, it usually was fleeting, or at least she thinks so. Adelaide is so different. Adelaide changed her, saved her, and Violet couldn't be happier for it. After wailing turns to sobs, sobs to whimpers, and whimpers to hiccups those doe eyes look up at Violet's, pleadingly, before uttering her first complete sentence: _"Bad boy mean. Stop bad boy_." She pleads, her bottom lip trembling. _"Make bad boy go 'way."_


	13. AUTHORS NOTE:

As you may have figured out, you've reached the conclusion of _False Prophet_. (I kind of hate the title now that the story is done, but that's another topic for another day.) I might continue the series, maybe even do some one shots if people say they want it, but this installment is done. Finite! Le fin!

Hell, if anyone wants to try their crack at this universe I'll be all for it.

Thank you all for your kind reviews, for your enthusiasm about something that I literally just pulled out of my ass, and actually subscribing to this story. You guys made it worth it!

Candace


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